Well I just wrote half of a long chapter that THX has read over. He's going to tweak it, and I still have to finish the other half. As I continue with the story I begin to realize that this will become a LONG fic because there are so many things to cover and tell. Expect the first half of the next chapter by tomorrow. THX is a busy guy lol

Here's an update! So I kind of skipped class and my hands are sore from data entry all day at work (whine whine whine) but red comet 7 provided me with a huge amount of material, so here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

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“What's that?” he asked, walking toward the outlandish shape hunkered down in the driveway, running his hand over the bulging fender and admiring the gargantuan scoop mounted on the blue hood, balanced by the massive spoiler out back. “This is my car. I got it when Takumi was using the 86 too much. It's all wheel drive, easy to handle.”“Can I follow in the FC?” Kichirou asked hopefully. “Suit yourself” Bunta replied, grunting as he slid into the heavily-bolstered driver seat of his blue Impreza coupe.

Bunta and Kichirou rocketed off towards Mt. Akina at the same pace they did the first time they had reunited, a speed rarely seen exhibited by any single driver, much less two driving in tandem with no visible space between their cars during some of the corners. The mountain became ablaze as once again two of the greatest drivers to ever turn a wheel in anger upon a mountain pass took to the road in their incredible machines, so different and yet so similar. Two gods of slightly different eras, separated by a little under two decades, drifting in harmony and defying the odds of physics, logic, and sanity. The road was their playground, their kingdom alone. One was an aging man with a crippling cough whipping through the corners in a three hundred horse Impreza, shifting gears as if it was an afterthought as he lit up another cigarette, while the other was a man on the verge of having a complete family and the responsibilities that came with it, a man who had to race in order to feel truly alive, continually putting his life on the line in order to truly feel what it meant to live. They were born to run free in the night, free of the chains of responsibility and normalcy.

Arriving at the hotel, Kichirou helped Bunta unload the tofu and carry it inside the hotel, admiring the building as they silently worked. “Did they remodel?” he asked as they stood quietly in the silent kitchen, waiting for the chef's stamp of approval on the tofu. “They had a fire a few years ago, and they took the chance to improve it,” Bunta replied, silently admiring the vast expanse of stainless steel cookware and the spotless kitchen, so very much bigger than his own. With their task complete, they cruised to Lake Akina for a much needed rest and for some crucial engine cool down time before attacking the downhill. Bunta once again lit a cigarette, while Kichirou glared at him angrily. Bunta cocked an eyebrow.“What? You haven’t won yet,” he replied dryly. Kichirou only shook his head at the trademark bull-headed stubborn attidude of Fujiwara.

“So this is your new ride, huh?” Kichirou asked as he walked close to the Impreza and began studying it, lying on the ground and wiggling underneath the car to study the prop shaft and axles, sliding around to poke at the chassis braces, squatting at bizarre angles to peek through the wheels at the suspension components. Bunta felt a slight smile cross his lips at his friend's birdlike attitude, hopping from one place to the other, almost as if he were pecking out the car's many secrets. “Yeah, it’s a nice car. It’s easy to drive. I’m too old to have to concentrate so much these days. It gets the job done,” Bunta stated as he took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Kichirou so he wouldn't complain. The younger man caressed the ventilated hood, eyeing the massive scoop appreciatively. “So what makes this thing so special that it’s worthy of a Fujiwara’s touch?” he asked eagerly, excited by the information he had been able to see during his short examination. “Wanna find out?” Bunta asked coolly, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out underneath his foot, clapping his hands clean as he did so. “Ha! Sure, why not? It's been a long time since I've fainted in your car,” Kichirou said, rubbing the spot on his head where he had received a shrewd bump, decades ago when he had first ridden with Fujiwara Bunta in his gleaming new AE86.

Bunta hopped into the driver’s seat of the Impreza with a surprisingly nimble spring in his step and snatched his harness down over his chest, buckling the massive bands as Kichirou did the same. Kichirou was having a hard time not bursting into laughter from the excitement of it all. Something about his pupil made Bunta feel like a kid again and it made him smile, reflecting on the past. Remembering the past was something Bunta usually wasn’t too fond of for a number of reasons, but remembering the way he used to drive when he was young cast a happy glow on his face and a cocky grin on his lips.

Fujiwara revved the engine to its redline and dropped the clutch, rocketing off at breakneck speed with the tires screaming. He shifted gears faster than usual, the tires barking as they were fed great gobs of torque. He felt young again, happy, energized. His foot work became even faster, his steering sharper and more accurate. He began to drive with all the energy he had from his early twenties, back when he was actively racing, back when he had something to prove and nothing to lose. Something to prove not only to himself but the world around him. Racing was where he belonged and he would stop at nothing until he was the very best, the undefeatable king of the streets. For the first time since Bunta could remember he drove with everything he had and nothing could make him hold back. He was racing an invisible rival, a man long since dead, picturing his first race. He felt the intensity that he cherished astThe adrenaline he was addicted to pounded through his veins. Bunta felt as though he had been dipped in sacred waters, cleansing the rust and the effects of the years off of him, leaving him the battle-hardened youth he had once been. A hard right approached with insane speed, faster than the AE86 could ever have attempted. Bunta’s grip loosened on the wheel, his left hand ready to fly, until finally he hit the brakes at the last possible second, slapping the transmission into second gear so fast that his hand became nothing more than an unfocused blur of motion across the shift knob. The rear differential locked and the car whipped violently but precisely into a drift of such incredible speed that as Bunta floored the gas pedal the two inside tires rose off the ground a few centimeters. Balancing the throttle he kept the car up on two wheels and glanced over at his friend riding in the passenger seat. Instead of the normal shock and fear that was shown by most of his passengers he was delighted to see his companion laughing hysterically.

“Is that all you got old man?!” Kichirou cried, his hand wrapped tight around the door handle, his knee braced against the transmission tunnel. Bunta knew he was kidding, but to an old man who now had the teen inside of him set ablaze, this made more than enough of a worthy challenge. Bunta flew out of the hairpin corner approaching the 180 KPH mark in the straight away, shifting gears as fast as he could without overwhelming the transmission, the throttle wide open the entire time. The corner was rapidly approaching on the dark horizon with plenty of room, but for a Fujiwara normal rules did not apply. The long straight at such an insane speed now became an early corner entrance as Bunta gave a hard jab to the brake pedal and a slight tilt of the steering wheel. The car was now sliding in an apparently uncontrolled skid down the straight, all four tires churning smoke as they fought desperately for traction. Rather than try and recover Bunta kept the throttle to the floor as the car flew sideways down the straight away, the rear bumper almost brushing the guard rail, until it finally reached the true corner’s exit.

“GO!” Kichirou screamed in excitement as if he could read Bunta’s mind. The straight away drift was not intended to be kept all the way through the corner. It was to set the car up with so wide of an entry angle that the car could then accelerate through the hairpin almost as if it were another straight. Bunta eased off the throttle for a split second to let the tires regain grip before flooring the pedal again and hovering the inside front tire over one of the famous gutters of the five hairpins rather than hooking it at full throttle. The lines that Bunta began to run would have blown Takumi’s mind had he been with them, and made him question everything he thought he knew. The skill and mastery over the vehicle and road that Bunta portrayed was a crystal clear picture of what Takumi would one day become, a speed demon that could mold car and road to his will.

Bunta continued down the mountain at knuckle-whitening speed until he reached the bottom and snatched the hand brake, swinging the Impreza around and rocketing back up the mountain in the same manner he had descended. The two racers laughed as they enjoyed the pure and simple pleasures of driving for joy and excitement. They quickly reached Lake Akina again, the Impreza finally a clear object rather than a blurred moving figure, resting now as it cooled down. Kichirou jumped out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, pumping his fists and laughing. Bunta got out of the car and lit another cigarette, his face an immovable wall of stone as his friend jumped around excitedly, running toward the beach and whooping loudly. “Hmph…ha…haha,” Bunta chuckled as he watched his friend run, until he could no longer contain his laughter. The hearty laugh turned into a desperate cough, a violent hacking wheeze that turned his lips blue with the strain. Shaking his head, he leaned against the car, glanced at the cigarette, and let it fall.

“Bunta, I’d say you still got it my friend!” Kichirou shouted as he ran back to the two cars. “I haven’t made a run like that in years. I’d forgotten what got me into this sport in the first place. Thanks for the reminder, Kichirou,” Bunta said, enjoying his pupil's unfeigned delight. “No problem at all!” Kichirou replied as he reached out and shook Bunta’s hand much in a way a high school basketball player would congratulate his team mate. The night finally became quiet save for the sound of the Impreza's engine ticking from the heat. “So I’m guessing you found Ryosuke,” Bunta said, the first to break the silence. Kichirou looked down solemnly before peering back to his stationary FC. “Yeah, I did. He’s fast Bunta, incredibly fast. I couldn’t pass him. He put up a good fight. I’m not so sure I’m cut out for this stuff anymore.” “There’s two reasons you didn’t blow past him. First, it’s Akagi. How many years has it been since you set foot on Akagi?” Bunta asked. “I’d say at least a decade and a half,” Kichirou said, suddenly feeling very old. “Exactly. That’s the brat’s home course. Akagi to Ryosuke is like Akina to Takumi. I’d say you did pretty good sticking to his bumper on a course you haven’t touched in fifteen years.” “I guess…” Kichirou finally said, still doubting himself.

“And the second reason you didn’t beat him is because you’re driving wrong.”“What?” Kichirou cried.“You’ve been running those pro races for too long. You’ve been forgetting your roots. What makes you so special, Kichirou, is that you’re a born natural street specialist. That was apparent from the first time I drove with you. That’s why I took you under my wing. That’s where your speed comes from. If you chased Ryosuke using solely the techniques you’ve developed on the circuit, then you only gave Ryosuke fifty percent of your true speed.” Kichirou was now staring at the FC with burning intensity. Bunta could read it in his eyes, nodding in approval as Kichirou suddenly realized the true purpose of his machine and the perfection it had attained.

“Kichirou, you know that it's true. You know you’re much better than that. I think you just need to shake the rust off in the places that really count.” Bunta began to walk towards the FC, opening the door and settling himself into the aggressive bucket seat. “Get in, it's time to get you driving fast again.” Kichirou approached the menacing red FC with trembling hands, for the first time truly afraid of his car and its enormous potential. With the incredible show from Bunta, how could he possibly stack up? How could a pro racer remember how to drive on the street, with all the madness and barely-controlled insanity that it required? Putting his key into the ignition he depressed the clutch and started the car. The engine idled quietly, murmuring to itself through the open exhaust as it warmed up and built oil pressure. “Forget everything you learned on the circuit. Remember seventeen years ago, remember our battle. You can be faster,” Bunta said, clicking his harness and falling into silence. Kichirou gulped, then revved the engine and took off into the night.

Diving through the first corner Bunta shook his head.“You're using grip. Don't. Throw yourself out there, push yourself and the car,” he ordered. “But drift is slower!” Kichirou responded, shifting up as he barreled toward the next corner. It had been a long time since he had driven Akina every day, but to forget the winding torturous curves would be like forgetting his name. The course was burned into his mind, every corner bearing a special place in his memory.“Ryosuke isn't looking for speed. He's looking for control. If you can control your car better than he can control his, you'll have his interest,” Bunta replied. Kichirou kept the throttle open as he approached the next corner, a giant sweeper. His heart began to race, his brain screaming to hit the brakes and slow down. Ignoring the warnings shouted by every fiber of his being he kept his foot down, trusting in his car to pull him through. Turning the wheel he pumped the throttle and initiated his drift.

Off the road, hidden halfway behind a tree, Ryosuke watched the red FC as it hurtled through the corner. He felt an eyebrow raise on its own as the sight intrigued him. The stranger was being coached by Fujiwara Bunta. "A challenge." *

That's. . . Just one half. . . ? I honestly never noticed. Must've been the great writing blinding my eyes towards that fact.

Bunta's driving is absolutely insane! The only time I ever drifted while on two wheels was in TOCA Race Driver 3, where I hit the curb while sliding the Impreza. And that game doesn't have the realistic physics it claims to have.

The next half is going to be posted tomorrow night after I get back from class just because it's a great chapter and I want it to be really done well. A lot of great info from RC7, lot of great material to work with, and I want to devote some solid time to it to make sure it wows everyone here.